


Elucidation

by remesy



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Comedy, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Love, M/M, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Slow Romance, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remesy/pseuds/remesy
Summary: Once a famous writer, Sanji died a high-profile, successful life. His grandson divulges into Sanji's past with a single copy his last book, revealing beautiful memories with the love of his life, Zoro.First person POV from Sanji's. Two narratives unravelling parallel to one another: Sanji's and his grandson's.
Relationships: Roronoa Zoro/Vinsmoke Sanji
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set in the modern world but the timelines are a bit skewed, meaning that I won't make any assumptions about the past or the future and that (despite the lack of sense) both timelines will reflect our current period. And although in the One Piece canon world Robin is technically much older than Sanji and Zoro, she is the same age as them in this fic so she can actually make an appearance in the first chapter after his death. All the side characters in this fic are made up, including the grandson, but Sanji's past will involve mainly familiar faces. 
> 
> The story will involve heavy emotional themes such as heartbreak and the aftermaths of death, but there will definitely be comedy implemented in between to lighten up the mood.

"My husband, Sanji Blackleg, was one of the greatest poets who has ever lived and it's one of the many reasons why I fell in love with him. His stories touched a myriad of hearts, which naturally includes my own. Some adventurous, some romantic, and some that spoke of human nature. In one lifespan, he has achieved so much beyond his work, as he had also been an outstanding chef from a young age—taught under Zeff Blackleg, his father and mentor. In another life, he could have easily pursued to be one of the greatest chefs instead. And it is still a wonder how such a man chose to be with me: an ordinary woman,” his grandmother—a woman in her eighties, standing on the podium and feeble in appearance, speaks of her dead husband with pleasant creases in the corners of her eyes. 

There are cameras in every possible angle pointed at her. News agencies of great names, startups, and international and local all gathered in the same vicinity to hear her voice. 

“The day we met…” she shakes slightly like a rustled leaf in the wind, chuckling. “I could never forget how charming Sanji was. He was a true gentleman who was well-mannered and humorous, and I was just a waitress at a diner he and his friends used to visit quite frequently. I’ve taken a liking to him immediately because of his kind demeanor and handsome features, but it took us a few years of falling in and out before diving into a love that I can truly say was like no other. One of the earlier books he wrote, “Karma,” inspired by an Eastern concept, we were like two fated souls destined to meet again and again...” 

The day is solely dedicated to Sanji Blackleg, whose ashes are buried garishly behind her. Beneath chrysanthemums of pastel blue, pink, and orange, hues that did not reflect him accurately, he is finally at peace from an all-consuming illness. 

A few questions follow her eulogy. 

“How did he die?” one of them asks, looking for a mere day’s worth of story. 

Her voice softens. “Well, everybody knows how heavy of a smoker he was,” drawing from the stoic crowd a few cracks of smiles. “Five years ago, he became chronically ill from a lifelong consumption of cigarettes and, last week, drew his last breath. Even so—lying on his back and hooked to a ventilator—on the day of his death, he asked the nurses and doctors for a final cigarette.”

The boy remembers this day, as plainly as it has happened a minute ago. 

His grandfather, with a shriveled body, his greyish blond hair characteristically falling in front of his left eye and his boney fingers clutching the white line of his cigarette, softly coughed with every inhale of his cigarette. Most of his family members waited outside of the room, anticipating his very last breath. Sanji, unaware of this, or perhaps didn’t care enough to show, seemed happy enough to enjoy the taste of his old friend and bask in the warmth of the sunlight pouring in from the window. 

Despite being always surrounded, he seemed lonely, with eyes that seemed to belong elsewhere. Searching. Wandering.

The funeral ends with each and every person showing their respects to Sanji Blackleg. Some who aren’t related by blood cries, while some of his family members utter only a few words of respect. They shake hands with his grandmother, who stands like a statue next to the gravestone, with firm footing, and holding up her body weight with a wooden cane that’s half the size of her small physique.

She smiles gently and squeezes their hands, to every person who mumbles a story about how much his grandfather has influenced their lives. 

They stand beneath the blazing afternoon sun, in the midst of the late summer weather. The media: reporters, cameramen, and their workers pack up and leave first. His fans, who spoke highly of his works, also fades away little by little. Family members, who wipe away more of their glistening sweat than tears, take their black limos back home.

“Ah,” his grandmother speaks in recognition, her voice hoarse from dryness. 

First word in a few hours, he recognizes.

A man he has never seen before. In his eighties like his grandmother, except he doesn’t appear nearly as feeble. Despite his old age, he appears strong with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and prominent square jawlines. Naturally arched brows, tall nose, thick lips, and oddly—short, dark green hair and three gold earrings on his left ear. He wore a sad expression standing before his grandfather’s grave. He closed his eyes for a few silent minutes and prayed to a god or Sanji as if to bid a farewell.

“Ann,” he greets with a small nod and a handshake. “I’m sorry about your loss.” 

His grandmother wore a thin line as a smile. The kindness in her eyes, which usually emanates so effortlessly, seemed strained with this man. “It’s all of our losses. I’m sorry to you, too.” 

He nods again, and without another word, walks away. 

There was grief heavily weighing on his shoulders, and his eyes resembled a storm as if standing in the middle of a torrential downpour. On his way out, he gave a small acknowledging smile to the boy who stood impassively on the side—who dully stared back at him, with a piercing blue gaze, to decipher whether the old man’s expression was feigned or not.

There was an evident acceptance in his expression. Devastated, but not consumed by such an emotion. Honest and kind, but not in the conventional manner like his grandmother’s. How did the boy know all of this? He had learned from a young age to observe, to see beyond the physical eye: the true qualities in others. 

The green haired man was the most interesting person he had come across that day. He had a lingering imprint in his head as they drove to the family’s estate, which was previously owned by Sanji Blackleg. 

Passing the gate was a beautiful private home of four thousand square feet, with the private beach as backyard and French inspired architecture that spoke loudly of his grandfather’s childhood spent in France. Dozens of cars parked in the yard, lined up side by side, and imprints of their tires on his beautifully trimmed grass. He could easily recognize every one of these cars, except for one. A small and humble ride, with a hue of purple and blue to accentuate the eccentricity of a mundane vehicle; and standing right next to the car was his grandfather’s most trusted lawyer, Nico Robin. She, too, was around eighty and had retired ages ago, but for a dear friend she had agreed to do one final job of reading his will. 

A woman of respect, he thinks. An archaeologist, historian, professor, and now a lawyer. Intelligent, confident, fearless, and kind: attributes of Robin that were highlighted by his grandfather when first introduced to the family. 

“Hello,” she greets, crinkles of amusement in the corners of her eyes at the sight of the boy. He gives her a courteous nod as a response, which she accepts with a warm smile. “Ann, I hope you’re alright. Lovely day, isn’t it?” the raven haired woman ushers his grandmother toward the front door of the house, holding her by the shoulder as she is at least three inches taller.

“Robin, I’m truly delighted to see you,” she responds, choking out a strained response as she climbs the stairs one by one. Wobbly on her feet and her body weight resting on the cane. “Though I’m a year younger than you are, I feel like an older woman in your presence,” she laughs as she catches her short breath.

“We both have reached that age, Ann. I find that my body isn’t what it used to be.” 

As the two older women walk ahead of him, he keeps a safe amount of distance. His eyes casted on the brick staircase, the steel railing, and rows of well tended flowers surrounding the house. He has spent a fair amount of his childhood in this home, alone, staying out of his family’s scope and investing his time in reading and studying. 

In a hushed tone of voice, his grandmother whispers to Robin, “It’s not going to be easy, Robin, but please bear with them as they are... family.” 

An understanding is exchanged between the two women as they walk inside the house with hardened expressions and straightened backs, like warriors trudging through a field of war. 

The boy, a mere observer, followed behind them to see his entire family in the living room with held breaths, anticipatory expressions, and predatory eyes. He has never seen all of them gather in the same room, but what better excuse is there than a will reading to bring everyone together? 

Professionalism arising, glasses pushed up with the point of her two fingers, Robin makes her way to the desk at the far end of the room—a designated spot where Sanji Blackleg used to write his stories. Before reading the contents of the file in hand, she begins the introduction:

“Sanji Blackleg is one of my oldest friends. A kind and gentle spirit who began a foundation five years ago to feed the homeless, or ‘anybody who’s hungry’ he used to say. Every Sunday he personally cooked for those in need, and urged restaurants all over the city to donate to the cause instead of throwing away their food.” 

Her eyes gleamed with pride, as she spoke of all that her dearest friend has done for the world, but the boy noticed that, instead of sharing those feelings, his family members were huffing with dissatisfaction. Impatience as vivid as the day written on their faces. “Ever since he was a young boy, he’s always told me—”

“ENOUGH!” 

A command booms, echoes, splits the peaceful moment open in a single slice of wretchedness. The boy’s father. A businessman who thrived on the wealth of his father-in-law, with his greed reflected by his bloated stomach and the size of his Rolex, stood in the midst of the family members to throw another one of his childish tantrums. Red with anger, fists clenched, and spit spewing out with every word he spoke: “I don’t fucking care about this. Get to the will. That is what we  _ all  _ came here for. 

The raven haired woman who would usually appear amicable in nature paused. Her lips thinning, eyebrows arching, eyes narrowing. It was a terrible gaze, frightening enough for him to shrivel in his father’s stead. Her blue irises narrowing around his neck, brutally suffocating him until he chokes in his own gurgling spit. 

The boy shivers in response, simultaneously captivated by fear and admiration. 

She conceals her expression rather quickly, the obvious resentment she has for the entire family. His grandmother closes her eyes, tired from the high tension of the room and the family drama, as Robin continues with the next phase of the will reading. “I’ll make this quick then, given how much of a rush everyone seems to be in,” she tells them. 

Holding in between her fingers was a single white sheet of paper, and everybody in the room inched closer to the edge of their seats.

“I, Sanji Blackleg, being of sound mind…” she skips a few lines with a pregnant pause. “My house will be passed along to Ann, my dearest wife… My two daughters and their families will have my entire collection of books and family recipes… The rest—liquid assets, savings, stocks—will all be donated to my foundation to feed the hungry. Perhaps my greatest achievement in this lifetime…” 

A devilish little smirk is apparent in the corners of her lips, who delights in the horrified expressions in front of her. A silence so big that even an elephant would be an understatement. 

The first one to rupture that silence with a roar similar to an eruption is, of course, his father, who slams his fists on the wooden tabletop in front of him for dramatic measure. 

“WHERE. IS. OUR. MONEY?” 

“You little conniving  _ wench _ . Just because you’ve acted as his mistress in his thirties does not mean shit to us. Yes, we all know. All of us knows,” he mocks, repeating his words as if she didn’t hear it the first time, shaking one of his fat fingers in her face. “We  _ know _ and we’ve talked about it amongst ourselves about his  _ infidelity _ —Sanji Blackleg’s dirtiest little secret.”

To the boy’s surprise, the delight in Robin’s eyes did not fade away in the least. 

Unflinching in the face of the infuriated man, she pleasantly responds, “I’m afraid that wasn’t me. Now, I have to get going to meet my  _ husband _ , Frankie, for dinner.'' 

She marked an end to the conversation, pouring water on the destructive fire that was his father—who, in his attempt of spite, spits in her direction. His saliva, however, droops down as a pathetic loogie, appearing as though he had just drooled on himself. 

The rest of the family plunges into a burst of arguments and complaints about the affairs of their businesses or their debts to private schools for their children.

Robin quickly collects her files and weaves her way through the crowd. She taps the boy by the shoulder, prompting him to help his grandmother to her bedroom.

The day’s events have completely drained the poor woman. She couldn’t keep her eyes open as they guided her up the stairs and into the private space of the bedroom that was now completely hers, and she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. 

“I’m quite tired,” the raven haired woman admits once the two of them are outside of the house. Her age shows as she, too, leans on him for support. “I’ve mentally prepared myself for today, but the warnings Sanji and Ann gave me weren’t nearly enough,” she chuckles lightly. 

“I’m sorry about my family,” he apologizes in their place. 

He’s always been the black sheep of the family. Always kept his head low and lips shut. Unless spoken to, he remained silent. He had little interest in business affairs unlike his two older brothers and father, so they casted him aside and often pretended that he did not even exist. Luckily, that left him alone to do whatever he pleased. 

Once they reach the car, she slowly pulls away from his hold on her.

Taking a deep breath of the fresh air, she regains her composure with an inquisitive smile. “Out of the family, you remind me most of Sanji—kind, intelligent, and a bit of a loner. Are you curious to know more about him?” she asks, connecting her almond shaped eyes with his, probing into his inner psyche to lay out whether there were any qualities of his that resembled his father. 

“Yes,” he nods. 

He’s heard many things about his grandfather. Outrageous rumors. Dirty secrets like his infidelity, another family outside of their knowledge, and any sorts of weaknesses that could break the façade of a kindhearted millionaire with multitudinous talents. But he wasn’t looking for weaknesses of Sanji Blackleg. There’d be no point in tearing apart an already dead man who’s made his will. He just wanted to understand  _ why _ those blue eyes of his always sought for an elsewhere.  __

She pulls out a book from her car. A copy he’d never seen before. Green hardcover and absent of a title. 

“This is the only copy that exists. He entrusted me with it. ‘A life’s work doesn’t even compare to this single book,’ he said, and ‘I’m afraid that the rightful owner isn’t you but someone else,’” she tells him. Worn heart, pain in her gaze, and a soft glint of memory trapped in her blue eyes. “But with my age, I no longer have the vigor or vitality to travel across the world. I think it’ll mean more for  _ him _ if you deliver it in our stead.” 

The boy feels the book in his hands. Light and thin, but he recognizes its profound weight. The importance it carries for his grandfather. 

“The address is written on the last page,” she tells him.

He scans through the pages to see Chinese characters and postal numbers, then recognizes the English words at the bottom of the page. 

Kyoto, Japan. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” he thinks out loud, mouth parting from surprise. Then again, he wasn’t at the same time. He knew how much of an influence Eastern philosophy had on his grandfather’s writing. 

“But promise me that you will keep this away from the rest of your family.” 

Without the need of an explanation, he understandably responds, “I promise, and I will also deliver this book to the man in Japan.” 

“Thank you, and please tell him that all of us miss him.” 

After she drives away, he tucks the book into the inner pocket of his blazer and quietly makes his way to the gazebo by the beach. His private space, where he is forgotten, or quite contrary—where he forgets. 

He fiddles with the pages, feeling the thin and crisp paper against his fingers. The book is absent of any credits, copyrights, or any sort of standard introductory pages. Empty. He flicks through three blank pages to ponder upon, not a chapter, but a letter.

* * *

We haven’t heard from each other in forty years now. 

Well, that’s what I  _ should _ be saying. That’s what I told Ann and my daughters, but I’ve sent you letters every year—for your birthday, Christmas, Valentine, and even Children’s Day (your favorite holiday and Luffy’s birthday). I’ve asked you not to write me back and you’ve kept your word. I was afraid, as you already know, for my family to find out how I am still hopelessly, agonizingly, and madly in love with you; regretfully, should I add. I could’ve never guessed that a feeling could last a lifetime and that the one who would haunt me until my death bed would be you, Zoro. 

You were never dramatic. Words that better describe you would be pragmatic, atheistic, stoic… and a dash of masochistic? Why else would you have waited for me, you big dunce. Why would you waste an entire lifetime for me, when I have left you coldly in the dust, living alone without finding a wife or…a husband for yourself. 

The first time we met, we were sixteen. We never called each other by our actual names. 

I watched a documentary the night prior to your transfer, about aegagropila linnaei. It sounds like pure bullshit, but my nickname for you—marimo (aka moss ball)—is a form of those species. And your nickname for me—erotic cook—managed to start a rumor that I had an incessant habit of masturbation in the school’s bathroom stall. Third floor, boy’s bathroom, furthest stall from the door was solely dedicated to me, and girls’ would squeal at the sight of me like I was some sort of a sexual imp. So, without needing to say anymore, I hated your fucking guts as you’ve probably hated mine. I mean, I  _ did  _ beat you up in front of everyone the first day you transferred.

It’s almost humorous to think back on those years. Fueled by our pubertal hormones, fragile egos, and the need to prove our masculinity. There were times when I went out of my way to look for you, stumbling into the auditorium to see you napping, and I stood by, quietly laughing to myself. 

I have a lot more time at hand nowadays to allow these memories to haunt me, Zoro. The feelings of regret and the possibilities of another life flickers in my eyes, and vividly actualizes in my dreams. I cannot rewind the time nor would it matter spending my last year with you, so, like the coward I am, this book will be sent to you after I die. When I am no longer in purgatory, in between the bliss of my memories and the hell of a reality that I’ve chosen. 

Carefully extracted from the past, I wrote down those memories and made it into a book. A single copy. For my one and only audience. Something I’ve failed to realize when I was younger.

Fuck composure. Fuck having to keep up this image of writing, behaving, living, breathing, and even shitting decently. 

All I’ve ever wanted, I was able to have in my grasp. Except you, of course. And let me tell you that on the day I die, the minute before my consciousness falls off the earth, the only one in my mind will be you. 

I will utter your name—or, aegagropila linnaei, marimo—in my head until I am able to live in the dreams of our past.

* * *

He closes the book shut and digests the contents of the letter.

Recalling all the rumors circulating around his family members and the prattling maids, he knew that those had roused from the fact that Sanji Blackleg had left Ann for six months in their thirties. No one knew the truth of where he went and  _ who _ he was with, except for Sanji and Ann. In the palm of his hands, the question of  _ who _ was answered for the boy. A man named Zoro with green hair. He suddenly recalls the old geezer who stood by his grandfather’s grave and Ann’s vivid scowl on her face.  _ So, that was him, _ connecting the dots at last. The mysteries of Sanji Blackleg’s past unravelling. 

So, this book… is this a love letter? He felt like he was prodding into the secrets between these two men. Intrusive bystander watching them make love through words. 

His family, ignorant and shallow minded, would have a blast if they ever find out that Sanji’s mistress had not only been real but a  _ man _ on top of that. He tucks the book into his breast pocket again. The sun had set and he didn’t dare read this among his family members. He takes out his phone, waits patiently for the pages to load. The gazebo is a bit far from the wifi radius, so it took a lot longer than usual. He types  _ Kyoto, Japan _ into the search bar and selects tomorrow’s date to leave from the closest airport. Instead of the option to land into the Kyoto airport, Osaka comes up in its stead. Nine hundred dollars for a one-way ticket and twenty thousand if he wanted to fly first class, which was usually the case with his brothers and father who refused to breathe the same air as ‘peasants’. 

He buys the economy ticket with the click of a button, charged to the black credit card that was under his father’s name. 

Tomorrow he knows the family will be too preoccupied with their lawyers to nitpick and fuss over the details of Sanji’s will, and his missing presence will not be noticed nor missed. 

He lays beneath the night sky, breathing the air of time that inhaled through his nose and exhaled by his mouth. A technique of meditation mentioned in the book, “Karma,” the story of two fated lovers who met time and time again, through alternative timelines, through reincarnations, and intertwined by what the Japanese called the red thread of fate. 

The square frame of the book is pressed against his softly beating chest, and in his eyes: a hue of green and yellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story, edited it, left it for a few years, and here I am rewriting the whole thing. I think the most difficult part of this fic is that it’s coming from a completely different perspective. The eyes of Sanji’s grandson, who is completely new and fabricated, while simultaneously capturing the essence of Sanji into the story. 
> 
> The mood, the tone, the way to tell the story was wrong initially. I found myself demotivated from writing this story because it failed to execute what I had in my mind. Finally, though, I think I got it. And I hope that I’ve also regained my motivation to finish this fic. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everybody for their support + enthusiasm for this story. I deeply appreciate every comment and look forward to writing this out. 
> 
> Just to clarify, any time it's First person POV it's Sanji speaking and when it's Third person POV it's his grandson. There's a bunch of time skips in between Sanji's narratives so hopefully it doesn't confuse you guys. The narrative from the first chapter, when Sanji talks about his fighting period with Zoro, is in the first year they meet.

With the ticket in hand and the book in place by his left breast pocket, he made his way to his gate, 30B, with the large blue suitcase rolling by his side and the music drumming in his ears. 

Five hours ago, in his last minute packing spree, his grandmother walked into his room with a dismal expression. The click of the cane against the wooden floor creaking with every shift of her weight, as she made her way towards the only chair in the room where she slumped down with a soft sigh of relief. 

“Japan,” she uttered the word as if it had a foul aftertaste. “I assume you’ve read the book.” 

He was stumped for a moment. “You know about the book?” he asked, incredulous. 

Her eyes met his, narrowing slightly. Pain, anger, exhaustion flashing in a rapid beat of the silent seconds passing by them. “I do, but I never read it. He told me that it was meant for someone else, and his expression alone was enough to tell that it was about him and only for  _ him _ .” She clutched the metal ferrule of her wooden cane. Her emotions running unruly in the storm trapped inside of her grey irises. “I’ve lived my life as a fool. In the shadow of a man who had never truly looked at me. I was blinded by my own delusions and felt content with the empty shell of his body.”

With the ticket in hand and the book in place by his left breast pocket, he made his way to his gate, 30B, with the large blue suitcase rolling by his side and the music drumming in his ears.

Five hours ago, in his last minute packing spree, his grandmother walked into his room with a dismal expression. The click of the cane against the wooden floor creaking with every shift of her weight, as she made her way towards the only chair in the room where she slumped down with a soft sigh of relief.

"Japan," she uttered the word as if it had a foul aftertaste. "I assume you've read the book."

He was stumped for a moment. "You know about the book?" he asked, incredulous.

Her eyes met his, narrowing slightly. Pain, anger, exhaustion flashing in a rapid beat of the silent seconds passing by them. "I do, but I never read it. He told me that it was meant for someone else, and his expression alone was enough to tell that it was about him and only for _him_." She clutched the metal ferrule of her wooden cane. Her emotions running unruly in the storm trapped inside of her grey irises. "I've lived my life as a fool. In the shadow of a man who had never truly looked at me. I was blinded by my own delusions and felt content with the empty shell of his body."

The boy gave a curt nod, urging her to continue, afraid that he would break her train of thought if he spoke.

"I had hoped that he would inevitably come to love me if I was always there to lick his wounds, but unfortunately that wasn't the case. His soul was bound to that man and not enlivened by anybody else," she sighed.

With a curious tilt of his head, he tentatively asked, "The man we saw. Was that him?"

"It was," she confirmed.

He took a moment to gather enough courage for the next question. Unable to restrain himself, filled to the brink with curiosity and frustration from this modern day Shakespearean tragedy, he asked: "Then, why? Why didn't you just let them be?"

She closed her eyes, seemingly dozing off in the armchair. He thought the conversation had died there as the silence overtook the dim room with only the white noise of the air conditioner running in the background. He went back to the task at hand—clothes, toothbrush, passport, socks and an extra pair of shoes neatly packed into his suitcase.

"He was the love of my life," his grandmother suddenly whispered, an acknowledgement of a knowledge so plain yet simultaneously a revelation. She pressed her weight on the cane to stand, wobbling step by step towards the door.

A glance behind her shoulder and notably a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, admitting, "And I... was a happy fool."

A boarding announcement snaps him out of his daydreams.

"Good evening passengers. We are now ready to begin boarding passengers at this time for flight to Osaka, Japan. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready."

With a fat yawn escaping his lips, he drags his body and luggage to line up with the rest of the crowd. Most of the passengers are expectedly Japanese. Foreigners like him stick out like sore thumbs, especially because of his blond hair. He hands the lady in a striped blue and white uniform his passport and boarding ticket, and hears the echo of his luggage wheels as he makes his way through the tunnel. The flight attendant greets him with a "hello" and a professional, airtight smile when he steps into the plane. Another attendant takes a look at his ticket to tell him that his seat is all the way in the back.

"Thank you," he tells them, but their attention has already shifted to the next passenger.

He weaves his way behind those making their way to their seats and those hauling their luggage to shove into their compartments.

"76, 77, 78" he mutters to himself to find his seat. "Here it is, seat 80E."

A midsection in the back of the plane, he notes.

He instantly regrets his choice of economy seats as his last minute seating arrangement has him squeezing in between two women, when in firstclass he has the privilege to have an entire lane to himself. They glance up at him with upbeat smiles on their faces. One stands aside after he struggles to fit his luggage in the compartment above. Thanking them with a curt nod, he crams himself into his seat that is propped up uncomfortably and has a pillow that bulges out unnaturally. Luckily he's thought ahead and brought a book light to occupy his fifteen hours of this sedentary position.

The plane takes off exactly at nine, and simultaneously the woman on his left digs through her tote to take out a granola bar. Chewing with such vigor that he could hear her through his soundproof headphones.

Nonetheless, he doesn't let it bother him—not yet anyways. With the pull of his two fingers, he takes out the book from his inner pocket and clips his book light on the back cover.

* * *

I had always wondered which season would suit him, and then I remembered. The day he transferred to our class. It was in late October. There were red leaves outside, steadily falling off its branches and the ground coated in its colorful hue. Bloody. Passionate. Wild. And notably, the color of the Japanese flag. I sat among the violinists and cellists. The entirety of the orchestra wrapped around the small space like sardines in a can. Enthusiastic chit-chats, horribly amateur tuning of our instruments, and the shuffle of our bags in search of our sheet music—all came to an abrupt halt when the teacher lightly tapped his baton against his tall stand.

"We have a new student joining us," he announced, pointedly directing the class' attention to the door. We all turned around from our seats, to see a tall and muscular form waltz in with a loose white tee, untamed green hair, and a naturally mean glare.

_Aegagropila linnaei_ , was my immediate thought.

I thought watching the documentary channel about animals and plants would be a waste of my time, but here I was—in my pocket, retained information cocked ready to fire.

"Please, Mr. Rolo-noa, introduce yourself," the band teacher read his name out loud from the attendance record. A few kids snickered in response, amused by the odd name.

"Roronoa," the kid corrected with his glare directed at those hiding in the herd of children. "You can call me Zoro. Came from Japan a month ago. Sixteen. And I don't play any of these instruments."

I was fixated by his accent and the demeanor in which he carried himself—a presence that emanated intensity, demanded respect, and soaked the classroom with the storm of his dark irises. He stood close to where I sat with the violin and bow sitting placidly on my lap, holding my eyes for a brief wandering second; an eternal hold for what seemed to be a millennia.

"How about the French horn? We are lacking interest in the brass section and you seem like the type," the teacher told him with a slight wink.

Sharp square jawline, arched eyebrows, tall nose, etched frown, three golden earrings on his left ear and numbers tattooed into his arms. His lips pulled back into a nasty grin, sharply holding his gaze with me again. This time intentional. Domineering, competitive, cocky. "Sure, at least it's not a _violin_ ," he sneered, attention fully directed at me. Weapons ready, war initiated, and sparks igniting.

A slam of the percussion in the back of the room. Two cymbals striking together.

Seeing the same red as the leaves outside in my vision, with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes, I threw a not so subtle middle finger at his direction. Glowering at the green haired boy as he strolled down the lanes. A taunting smile ghosting over his lips.

"Settle down everyone. Let's begin," the teacher drew our attention to the front with another small tap against the metal stand, followed by a harsh, jagged whip of his baton, and the sound of our bows hitting the strings, lips against mouth piece, and mallets against the metal of our glockenspiel.

A still photo in action. A mundane life awakening into existence. My barren heart bearing a field of flowers, with the colors that resemble the Fall and his dark green hair.

The sound of music coming to life.

. . .

"Come on," I goaded.

Same year, but this time: winter. My hot breath created a fog as it hit the frigid night air. Our jackets, schoolbags, books, and instruments were tossed to the side where a homeless man slept nearby. My blood boiled and my body was flushed red with adrenaline. I swung one of my powerful legs into the air, aiming at the—for the lack of a better word— _shithead_ 's perfectly symmetrical and chiseled face.

For the past few months after transferring to our school, he had garnered enough attention to fill up the entire auditorium.

Almost every _fucking_ week, there was a girl asking him out.

Pivot of his footing. Calm like the individual snowflakes that were seemingly buoyant and suspended midair. He drifted casually to the side as my ferocious kick slid by the side of his head.

Hot as fire and cool as ice. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes and a shift of power dominance as his fist sliced the air to clap me right on the side of my cheeks, tossing me for a spin to land on the ground with a harsh thud.

In a quick motion of one, two, three. Jumping up from my short fallen stance, leveraging off the

ground with the grip of my flat palms, and swinging both of my legs in a simultaneous untamed and concise manner—his body _flew_ like the first time we had fought in the schoolyard.

" _Oof_ ," he spat the wind out of his lungs along with some droplets of blood.

In our eyes was unbridled hatred for the other. Unravelling was our pool of pain. In our veins was a pure, unadulterated feeling of exhilaration, like nothing we had ever felt before and nothing we _will_ ever feel than from the other.

He was never erratic. Even when his emotions flared, his movements remained controlled and conscientious.

I played dirty, with tricks and strategies up my sleeve, and he was bound—no, _chained_ —by his own rules. I could tell that he had proper martial arts training under his belt and that he had mastered the textbook basics. Analyzing the position of my feet before dodging with ease, but failing to adapt when my attacks became unruly, outside of any textbooks, and rooted in my fervent emotions.

It was almost a routine. Choreographed. Exchanging blows and learning unspoken things about one another.

I lit up a cigarette, creating a dome around the light with the curve of my numb, icy-cold hand. Drawing a hasty breath to feel the warm smoke curling inside of my mouth and sliding down my throat, but more importantly the familiar, addictive buzz climbing into my psyche and easing the tension gnawing at my muscles. I bit down on the filter as I quickly felt his presence drawing close, rapid footsteps _ta-ta-ta_ -ing against the frosted ground as he tackled me to the ground like a feral animal.

This time it was my turn to lose my breath, escaping between the gaps of my teeth as I desperately clenched onto my cigarette.

_Fuck_ , I thought.

My body skidded with the weight of his body crushing against mine. Rough concrete tearing away the fabric and scraping the ivory skin of my back. The usual smug look was swiped off his face. Hot breath in the cold air, the sound of his huffs filling up the soundless space, and his usual rhythmic beats finally working off the clock, as they were wild and rebellous instead.

"There it is," I pointed out, wincing from the pain. "You're finally fighting back seriously."

With a press of his lips, he stared at me with a stone-hard gaze, burning with the cruel fires of blue. He was _pissed_ ; and even then, I knew why he felt the way he did. Frustrated from being forcefully pushed out of the line, challenged by someone whom he couldn't even acknowledge as an equal.

I felt the beat of my heart loudly thumping in my ribcage. My cigarette burnt out from the stray snowflakes and my teeth brittle from clinging onto the rim so tightly. I tried to lift myself off the ground, but he pushed me back down, pinning me immobile.

"Shut up," he demanded. His knees pressed harshly against my esophagus and his hands strapped over my exposed shoulders. "I win today," he gloated, without a glint of glee in his eyes.

It was a strange thing to realize, whilst pinned down, and trembling from the frigid temperature, that I had never seen a smile on Zoro's face. Flashing in his eyes in the stead of his usual smugness was a remnant of anger, but it was no longer from our fight—travelling inward and ruminating in the loops of memory, there was a refusal to allow the waters to settle. I felt it all crashing into me, waves and swells of intensity from the emotions that he had buried in his deepest layer.

I had never thought much of him until then, never allowed his waters to tread into my own.

Since the moment we met, we argued senselessly. Our voices trumped loudly in the hallways and classrooms until it became a norm for others to simply ignore them.

Zoro was quiet on a regular basis, sarcastic at times but mostly pleasant to be around. He was well liked due to his handsome features and admired for the muscular definitions of his body. But that placid personality would have a gravitational flip at the sight of me, and I was no better than him. With the excuse to see who's stronger, better, we fought, denying the natural gravitational pull between us—an understanding that transcended words.

"Whatever, I'll win next time," I promised him, my own heat subdued by his emotions, and to be fair it was fucking _cold_ that night. I just wanted to wrap the fight up and snuggle in the comfort of my own bed.

My sudden change of mood indicated a closure, and in response, as if a realization suddenly dawned on him, Zoro violently shivered from the lack of clothes we wore. Throwing a glance at where our stuff was piled near the bench, he saw the same homeless man we had initially ignored casually looking through our school bags.

"Hey!" he shouted with threat and intimidation hinged on his tone, unravelling himself from my body and scrambling up to catch up to the disheveled man—who, in panic, had grabbed my violin case and weaved his way through the trees and bushes behind the park. A route he probably often took, as the dense woods most likely kept a hidden campsite that we would not be able to find, especially beneath trees that formed stark silhouettes against the sky.

Despite my bloodied back, scratches and tears, and the frigid air nipping at my skin, bubbles of laughter escaped my lips.

It was a completely deranged reaction, but noticing how Zoro's french horn was still tucked neatly inside of its case while my stupid violin was taken away, I couldn't help but find irony in the situation.

"What the _hell_ is he going to do with a fucking violin, and why didn't he take the damn french horn?" I asked, tears literally pinched out of my eyes, heaving with laughter.

The cigarette had rolled out of my mouth as I hastily sat up, catching midair the jacket Zoro threw my way.

Along with the rest of my stuff, I caught a tiny, amused smile playfully tugging at the corners of his lips. It could've easily been the trick of the fluorescent light, but I knew in that moment—call it instinct, a premonition even—that the concrete walls surrounding Zoro were beginning to crumble away. The pebbles fell, cracks gaped open, and with the shuddering motion of the earth revealed the light beneath.

"Let's go home," he said, grabbing my hand to hoist me up to my feet. His surprisingly warm and calloused hands soaking into my skin.

There was familiarity in his touch as they resembled my own, except the signs of my hardship were carefully crafted from the disciplinary, rigorous training under Zeff. Cooking, fighting, and cleaning the damn restaurant head to toe every night.

I wondered, along with the realization that there was a deeper pool within Zoro than what meets the eye, whether he too had his own struggles.

. . .

The year had wrapped into a closure and the students were rumbustious, celebrating their last day of school by trampling down the hallways and slamming their locker doors. Zoro and I were pulled into a group by Luffy, a kid in our grade who had managed to befriend every single person in the building, including the teachers and the janitors. He had cropped black hair, a faint scar right below his left eye, and a smile as large as his eyes for food—which was one of the main reasons why he hung lopsidedly on my shoulder, whining and begging for me to cook for him.

"Sanji, I'm _hungry_ ," he complained about his empty stomach for the hundredth time that day. The sound of his voice was beginning to resemble the faint buzz of a mosquito.

I irately grinded my teeth, partly due to his characteristically pushy attitude and Zoro's ill presence, who acted familiar enough to be our childhood friend.

My friendship with Luffy could be traced all the way back to kindergarten. The two of us had the same intuitive sense that our friendship would last a lifetime, but unfortunately he had taken that same interest with Zoro, convinced like _hell_ he found something within Zoro that he saw in every one of us he considered his closest friends. That vague, bizarre notion was impossible to understand. With his eyebrows knitted, lips pulled straight, and eyes narrowed, he explained that this feeling to be nothing more than a 'recognition,' though in his words it was more like: "It's like that feeling when you are hungry but have to poop at the same time!"

So, to my best estimate I assumed he was describing a gut instinct.

Since my fight with Zoro in January, with my stolen violin and the delusion of sensing _humanity_ in that big oaf, we fell from the pinnacle of our vigor. Spreading thin in a murky pond, our hatred for one another became tepid, insipid, and bland like Patty's cooking (one of the chefs from Baratie). My suspicion of those crumbling walls were the blame for the sudden change of pace between us, because after that day there was a shift in the way he interacted with me. It was more affable and easygoing, without the usual smug expressions to rub me the wrong way.

"Okay, _okay_ ," I gave in with a deep, prolonged sigh. "We'll celebrate at Baratie."

For someone who proclaimed that they were hungry enough to eat his own body, like the Greek myth of Erysichthon, he shot up with a burst of adrenaline and wandered to gather the rest of our friends.

I swept my locker clean, throwing the dust collected books, recipes, and scattered photographs into the cardboard box I had brought with me. Zoro stood by with a scrutinizing eye and pressed lips, lingering by my locker with nothing but a quiet presence. "What are you looking at?" I cleaved into the ice, vexed by his silent _judgment_ and prying gaze on my stuff, not that I had anything to hide.

"Nothing, Jesus," he huffed. "Why are you so high strung all the time? Didn't get a smoke break or something?"

His inscrutable expression didn't hint at mockery but I took it personally because I couldn't fully decipher his intentions. Our relationship has morphed. Blurred lines that no longer distinguished two rivals, but still an ocean apart from being able to call each other a friend. I considered him an acquaintance. At most, a friend of a friend.

Distance without any 'healthy' outlets naturally fizzled into bitterness, and so I responded, "None of your fucking business. I don't even know why you're coming with us."

He was right. I _did_ miss my smoke break, but this was more than that. This was my feeble attempt of gaining what I had lost, of sparking a fire that had died between us.

Zoro's stoic demeaner faltered. The corners of his lips twitched, the usual frown lines etched deeper, and a flash of pain crossed his eyes—a look that completely threw me off. I wasn't familiar with a side of Zoro outside of indifference and anger. He threw a restrained slam of his fist against the locker next to mine.

"What is your problem? I've been trying to understand why you hate me so goddamn much and I can't think of anything."

I hesitated, bit my tongue, in fear of the truth slipping away. The image of water sliding down my palm and between the cracks of my fingers.

The truth was that I missed the intimacy of having someone on the same page as me. Physically—in the familiar touch of his hands pulling me forward and the glint of mirth that was revealed under the moonlight. My mind did not ponder on these things but I understood the truth of the matter at hand, that I was an asshole to Zoro.

"Luffy invited me, but I guess I'll just go _fuck_ off then," Zoro bitterly spat, thoroughly pissed off from the unpleasant exchange.

" _Fuck_ , wait, Zoro," I called out by his actual name, something I had yet to do in that entire year.

Impeding him from taking another step, I grabbed Zoro by the sleeve with a pinch of my two fingers. The familiarity of touch resonated with me heavily. "I didn't mean that. Please. Just come with us. I'll make it up to you," I promised, earnestly, mind racing through some of my favorite French inspired recipes and rethinking on that train of thought, wondering if Zoro would even enjoy them.

Evidently emanating a buzz of annoyance, his lips drew a thin line. He grumbled, "Fine," and settled the matter with a passive silence until Luffy made his way back to them with a group of our friends—Usopp, Nami, Robin, Franky, and Chopper.

Noisy crowd they were, enough to drown out the guilt that pressed against my suffocating lungs.

Baratie at the time sported a cheesy icon of a white fish with an obnoxious, large orange mouth, and a pastel turquoise as its outer coating. Upon entering displayed a mural of an octopus, drawn as if sketched onto the flat of the wall. The restaurant reflected the old man and the chefs who ran the place: unruly sailors who, despite screaming and cursing at one another to replace actual conversations, upheld the decency of every prideful cook.

Crowds of round tables were dressed, cloaked, and hidden beneath white tablecloths, but of course, my friends and I were not allowed to sit amongst customers. We had earned ourselves a permanent reservation in the backroom, which sat a large exposed table and half-broken bar stools.

Zoro and I didn't have a chance to talk until late that night, after others had split off in groups based on what neighbhorhoods they resided in. I had volunteered myself to accompany Zoro home, with the sneaking feeling of guilt still inside of me.

It was dusk by the time the party ended. The hues of periwinkle and the vibrancy of the day's residue was reflected in the sky. Our party was rowdy and alcohol fueled, thanks to the old man cracking open the old liquor bottles that Baratie was unable to sell.

Zoro was noticeably in a better mood, even _humming_ to himself as we walked side by side.

"Man, how does Luffy eat so much?" he wondered out loud.

This was unfamiliar territory between him and I, as our conversations in the past had always stopped short with insults and small talks about our homework, classmates, or teachers.

I laughed alongside him with flushed cheeks and warm ears, feeling giddy myself from the buzz of serotonin in my blood. "I've known him like forever and he's always had an appetite like that."

The distance that I compared to an ocean with him seemed to have dissipated in a short minute, and I felt more relaxed in his presence.

I knew nothing about him, but he saw glimpses of who I was at Baratie and when he met my old man. The resemblance between Zeff and I ran deeper than our habits of curses and cheeky attitudes, as there was a chef's heart within the two of us that persisted on nurturing and tending to the underserved communities. Zoro peeked into my heart—the source of ardor.

There was a shift in the dynamics of our relationship, twisting the chemistry between us that had once only been of two rivals.

"What are your plans for the summer?" I asked, adrenaline pumping through my veins despite the mundane and miniscule scale of my question.

He shrugged, and from the narrowing of his eyes I knew he felt it too. Zoro scratched the back of his head, responding, "I was going to visit my adoptive father in Japan but I didn't make enough money this year, so I'm stuck working more hours at the site."

I blinked a couple of times, "Wait, you work? What site? Are you a construction worker?"

He nodded, "Yeah. I didn't want to pay for the gym so I thought I'd get paid to work out. And the pay isn't too bad. I'm able to meet the rent and send some over to Koshiru every month."

"Koshiru is your adoptive father?"

"Yeah," Zoro confirmed.

The darkness of the sky settled as shadows on his face, and I noticed how the neighborhood area became progressively seedier. Old and neglected local shops replacing the modern restaurants where Baratie proudly sat. Torn and uneven sidewalks stretching beneath our feet.

"He's in Kyoto, running a dojo. He sometimes comes short on monthly fees cus the kids aren't so interested in martial arts anymore, not in the way they used to be. I help him out here and there to help him stay afloat."

_So that's where he learned martial arts_ , I thought.

"What kind of martial arts do you know?" The suppressed feelings of eagerness and admiration threatening to break surface.

"Judo, aikido, but mostly kendo. I'm _really_ good at kendo. Bet I could kick your ass if I had my swords with me," he teased, that familiar smug grin hanging lopsidedly on his face.

Horrified, I replied, "You would kill me!"

"You can handle it," he assured me with such genuinity that I felt a humble blush brushing over my already drunken cheeks. "So, what about you? Which ones did you learn?"

The honest acknowledgement from Zoro cut me deep, as I respected him so deeply for his strength and level headed demeanor—one out of two which I lacked. It was a nice reminder that we were on equal footing, that he didn't see me as a lesser like I had always believed to be the case. I was also pleased to know that he was interested in me as much as I was with him.

"You've met Zeff, my adoptive father. He used to win national competitions in France when he was my age before he had his leg amputated. Everything under the belt he taught me, which is mainly savate and kickboxing. We're pretty intense about cooking so we keep our hands safe in fights."

With eyebrows raised, he jested, "No shit? That old man? I gotta take him on next time then."

The playfulness that seemed to be inherently ingrained in our interactions slipped back into the conversation. I threw a friendly banter his way, "You can't even beat me, marimo," and he probably would've bit off my tongue if we hadn't reached his apartment by that point.

As expected from the neighborhood it sat at, his apartment was—for the lack of a better word—a total shithole. Creeping mold from the bottom of the building had made more of a home of this place than Zoro, who took me up the wooden staircase and unlocked the door to a waft of fetid smell and damp air. I was petrified, but Zoro didn't seem to mind my reaction as he threw his shoes by the entrance and weaved through the small space of his roughly four hundred square feet studio. Half opened boxes sat in the corners of the room, and the only furniture in place of the living space was a futon with two thin blankets strewn on top. Naturally, despite the obvious intrusion, I made my way to his refrigerator to see a carton of eggs and frozen bags of pizza rolls.

"What the fuck do you eat around here?" I asked. Horrified wasn't nearly enough of a word to describe how I felt. The sinking feeling was so low that I could've sworn my balls dropped a second time.

Zoro gulped down his tap water in haste, shrugging nonchalantly, and clearly unbothered by my reaction to his living conditions. "What you see there. Sometimes ramen, and I buy tacos and halal at work. So I'm able to include some protein in my diet."

"What the— _protein_?!" I shrieked, an octave higher than normal. "You're worried about protein? You don't have any micronutrients in your diet, you idiot! How are you surviving like this? Have you been eating like this since you moved here?"

This time Zoro seemed slightly unnerved, as if he had _just_ noticed my distress and was confused by it.

I took a thin wisp of breath, similar to sucking in a cigarette. The chef's code in me kicked in _hard_ , and I knew if the old man had been in my shoes he would've felt exactly the same. I felt guilty for my fussy attitudes earlier, having a fit over the newfound boundaries between us while he concerned himself over bigger matters—sacrifices that can only be translated as a dutiful son. The admiration I felt for him profoundly washed over me and the canvas that I saw him as branched off into a myriad of beautiful watercolors, breaching out of its frame and soaking the walls all around in its colors of complexity and compassion.

"Vegetables? I get lettuce and tomatoes in my tacos," he joked, stretching his arms out and letting loose an unrestrained yawn. "I mean shit sucks right now but it's not permanent. There's only a year left of high school and I plan to get a full time job afterwards."

"You're planning to live like this for an entire year?" I shrieked again.

He nodded. An unyielding gaze as if he had already accepted the helplessness of his situation, waiting to yield what patience can offer. "I've done it for a year already, so another is not a big deal."

A stray thought crossed my mind at that moment, that Luffy's instincts are scarily accurate. After the raven hair's bizarre explanation of an instinct, his demeaner shifted to one of seriousness. A quick one-eighty that exposed the layer of personality that lies beneath. With a pat on my back and a strong clap that showed how strong he is despite his lanky figure, he told me, "Zoro reminds me of you. If you give him a chance, I think you guys will get along."

Luffy was right. Despite the marimo's lack of charm, I was allured by the enigma of his existence. I wanted, more than anything, to offer a hand.

"Let me help," I proposed, and knowing how a prideful character like Zoro would resist, I insistently added, "There's a lot of leftovers at Baratie. Zeff wouldn't mind if I gave you some because he hates the idea of throwing away ingredients that are still good but on the verge of decay. He would actually kill me if I didn't help, so…" I trailed off, noticing a faint smirk on his face.

Confused, I wondered if I had said anything remotely comedic or out of the ordinary.

"Sure," he agreed without a beat of hesitance, giving me a small nod of appreciation and a thankful lingering stare.

"And I'm going to help you with the boxes tomorrow," I told him this time without asking, treading rather recklessly to earn myself any sort of resistance. Instead, I received another genial nod and a cordial 'thanks' from him.

The discomfort swelled as we slowly treaded into that unfamiliar territory once more. I felt the familiar itch in the back of my throat as my body craved for a cigarette.

"Cool, glad that's settled," I coughed out awkwardly. "What do you want for lunch tomorrow?"

"Hmm..." he contemplated the matter gravely with a strained expression. "How about some onigris?"

Despite my lack of knowledge in the Japanese culture, I had an inkling about onigris. They were rice balls wrapped in seaweed with some sort of a protein filling in the middle. One of the easiest recipes to make. A staple to his cuisine.

"Okay, fine, but I'm going to have to pack it with some _micronutrients_ ," I quipped, making my way to the door and slipping into my loafers with the pull of my index finger.

Zoro stood by with the same plastic cup in hand. I eagerly dug my pockets for a cigarette and placed one in between my teeth. Looking up, I noticed an ambiguous glint in his eyes that was simultaneously mischievous and inviting in nature, and holding eye contact I felt the gravity of his presence drawing me close—captivating me wholly.

"See you tomorrow, Sanji," he mumbled his adieu in a low, husky tone, breaking his hold on me with a metaphorical snap of his fingers.

"Bye," I mumbled, stumbling out in a daze as if I had just woken up from a dream.

* * *

"Sir?"

He stirs into reality when the flight attendant demands his attention, hovering over him and the sitting woman to his left with a rolling metal cart. "Which meal would you like, sir? We have a choice of the chickpea curry and spaghetti, and a large selection of drinks."

Needless to say that there were more elegant choices in first-class, such as fois gras or filet mignon, but because he is reminded of his situation in the economy that he decides chickpea curry sounds better suited for his palate. As mentioned in the book, his grandfather had always fussed over nutrition and the quality of his ingredients. He always preferred fresh produce and picked out organic fruits and vegetables, claiming that he could taste the difference. Family members like his father, who had more of a rudimentary palate, thought of Sanji's habits as bizarre and pretentious. But the boy understood: the love he had for the art of cooking.

"And, which drink?" she asks again as she hands him a tray. A plastic container with brown chickpea curry and sides of apple sauce, small bowl of salad, and a slice of bread.

Digesting her question, he weighs his options by looking over at the rolling cart, spotting cartons of juice, tea, coffee, and wine. "Just water please," he requests politely, and she smiles coquettishly in response with a gentle pass of his drink.

Despite his well-tended mannerisms, he is devastated by the meal in front of him, dreading the first bite and wondering in the back of his head what onigris might taste like.

At the start of every one of his grandfather's books is a short introduction of his childhood passions: cooking, martial arts, and women. As he had a habit of pursuing beautiful women, many literary critics conjured up a grand image of his grandfather: frivolously living his luxurious life with multiple women before settling down with Ann. A romanticized life, from his chain smoking habits to his trips abroad in his twenties—all fabricated and spun into a good story.

This story, though, is raw. Unedited. Unrefined. Unashamedly baring his soul.

At the mention of his uncle Luffy, he had a laugh, for he had been the most vibrant person alive in existence. He was eccentric and boisterous. He had the most infectious energy that created warmth in every room he stepped into and in every heart he touched. He lived a life as a firefighter and traveled the world on a boat when he retired at an old age. Completely satisfied by his life, he died five years ago with a smile on his face, with no other reason than that it was his time to go.

At the thought of his uncle, his mood brightens, and he's also happy to note that the curry's flavor is much deeper than previously expected. Though, his brothers would still throw a massive fit at the sight of the food alone despite their lack of ability to distinguish shit from curry.

Finding himself famished, he gulps down the rest of the food and hands the tray back to the same flight attendant. The plane begins to enter night mode and dims their lights, and the only sound emanating is the buzz of the vehicle itself. He turns on the book light and immediately feels the heat of someone's gaze next to him.

"Sorry. I hope I'm not disturbing you," he apologizes to the woman sitting on his left side, switching off the light in haste.

"It's okay," she laughs, clearly unperturbed. "You can turn it back on. I have my eye mask and ear plugs so it's not a problem."

With another flick of his thumb, the area illuminates once more. The woman to his right has her head tilted back and her mouth wide open, and everybody else as far as his eyes can see are soundly asleep.

He turned to observe the woman to his left, whom he had initially been annoyed with for her large tote bag and granola bar, but noticed, at close glance, how kind she seemed. A mother, he was reminded, but nothing like his own.

His own mother is proper, fitting of a millionaire's daughter who knows nothing of hardship. He was told that she used to carry herself with dignity, with upright shoulders, poised smile, and a dream of becoming an actress or a model—up until, of course, when she met his father.

As an inevitable response to a marriage with someone like him, she became distant and closed off from the rest of the world. Even to her own children.

"Such a long flight, but I cannot wait to see my son," the woman tells him with visible glee. "Are you visiting Japan to see someone or just for tourism?"

He smiles politely, "Both."

"You must be excited. My son is around the same age as you but he's never stepped a foot outside of Japan, and I always tell him how important it is to see the rest of the world..." she quickly runs off on a tangent, about her son mostly but also about her plans in Japan. He listens with careful attentiveness until, eventually, she winds down with a yawn and rests her head on the stiff pillow behind her. "I should get some rest," she tells him, prepping the eye mask around her forehead.

"You should," he agrees, glancing at the screen in front of them. A global map with an animated plane and dotted white lines behind its tracks. "There's thirteen hours ahead of us."

The woman pulls down the mask to her eyes and pops the ear plugs in. He is left to himself with a bothered feeling in his chest, haunted by the memories of his elusive mother, wondering if she too is capable of the same warmth this stranger is able to emanate with ease. He ponders on what the woman said, realizing that he himself had never ventured off on his own like the mentioned son. His entire world had been centering around the estate and his family.

He had accidentally spilled out of the bubble he had been inside of all his life, like a goldfish out of his tank.

Alone, yet feeling somewhat accompanied by his grandfather. The contained memories bursting awake with each and every page he turns. Living, breathing, and his passionate heart drumming on eternally, the boy turns the light back on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. I'm sorry for taking a long, long hiatus. I've decided to apply for grad school and have been incredibly busy with the application. Hopefully, I come around to finish the story but let me know if you guys are still interested and would like me to finish as well. 
> 
> A little bit of a spoiler's alert, I mention Kuina in this chapter and would just like to say that she died around the same age as she did in the actual series, except here it is clarified that Zoro did actually love her (because he's not an asexual in this series!). Anyways, please continue on reading ;)

That summer, Zoro and I were busy unpacking boxes—which, thankfully, was over with by the time school rolled around. It wasn't that he had so much stuff to unload but we found ourselves distracted each time we tried to tackle the task. Whether it was a metal bento box with polaroid photos or a martial arts uniform he had previously outgrown, there was always a conversation that followed at the tip of our tongues.

It was during this time that I was assured that our connection had been more than a delusion I had made up and that my fascination with him had more of a validity.

I didn't want to admit it, of course, given that he was a guy and we were just friends, but I was completely capitulated by him. The same way I was with his three swords—'katanas', he called them. Polished blades that had intricate patterns and were delicately crafted, once used by the samurai of feudal Japan. His specialty weapons.

"You weren't kidding about the swords," I breathed out, an air of awe coursing through me. A tremble of fear as I ran my fingers across its sharpened and dangerous blade.

Zoro snorted, mockery playing in his tune, "Why would I kid? I can cut rocks with them."

"If you can cut rocks with those swords then my legs can catch on fire, dumb ass. Stop fucking around," I waved him off with a grunt, in the same way my old man does when he too is unimpressed.

My hands brought the blade inside the scabbard. A sword with a white handle called Wado Ichimonji.

Zoro twitched from my provocation, with a flare of that familiar competitive spirit engulfing the air around us. He grabbed the sword from me with a deadpan expression, murmuring, "I'll show you."

I followed shortly behind his muscular physique with a subtle grin lurking behind my aloof mannerisms. I was glad that he took the bait. I believed him, especially with the way he bulked up in the past couple of weeks. Arms, pectorals, waist to ankles—all bulging visibly through the fabric of his clothes. He explained to me that protein was the sole reason for that freakish growth, assuring that his training regime has not changed in the least since last year. I could've argued that he was finally hitting puberty, but of course I bit my tongue before losing our newly attained friendship.

We weaved into the backyard, through a narrow pathway that anybody would have missed at a first glance, and found his training ground hidden behind untrimmed shrubs and wildly grown ivies. A solitary paradise, with massive boulders lined up side by side, and weights and ropes scattered around.

Silence enveloping the entire area, I could hear the slightest hitch of breath from Zoro—who, in that same moment I turned around to make a remark, had cleaved the stone in front of him in half. All in one inhale. Sword withdrawn, back in its scabbard, and two loud, heavy thumps as the cleaved stones found gravity.

A single second has passed.

Realization dawned upon me and my jaw slacked wide open. "Oh, _shit_ ," I exclaimed, gasped in fact, as I ran up to find the rocks cleaved cleanly in half, perfectly so, like sliced potatoes.

"That's fucking insane!" I remarked, twisting my torso to meet his haughty, prideful, and pompous expression of 'I told you so' with a winning grin.

Although my built-in response would've been to throw an insult or a kick to upturn the dynamic, this time I felt a full on, unrestrained admiration seeping to the surface. "Why aren't you competing for swordsmanship or something? This is not something a _normal_ person can do." And it was true that Zoro was unquestionably _different_ from anything I had ever known in my little world. I knew in my gut, similar to how I felt about Luffy, that Zoro was about to be someone extraordinary.

Over a dozen cans of beer that I had brought from Baratie, he explained to me _why_ he hasn't been competing on a national, or even an international, platform. Sitting in his living room with our legs stretched out in front of us, shoulders grazing, I glanced at him from time to time to observe the beer foam sitting on top of his upper lip.

"Kendo competitions in Japan are treated as a sport. It's purely for entertainment purposes. Players are padded up while wielding bamboo swords and winning consists of how many points you score on the opponents' body. I appreciate the discipline and the history behind it but I don't see swordsmanship as something cheap as sports," he scoffed. "Trophies or fame, I don't care about that."

"Well," I drawled out, boring my eyes into him. "What do you care about, then?"

Arms resting on top of his folded knees and casually sipping the beer in hand, he seemed to be in deep thought.

A sweat bead trickled down his cheek, gliding across his sharp jawline— _plop_ , landing on his shorts. I should've cared more about getting my ass home before the end of my old man's shift but I couldn't budge from my seat. My roots sprouted and dug deep into the earth, and my breath stilled in the permanence of our time.

"Life and death," he told me, solemnly, crushing the empty can in hand. "Have you ever lost someone?"

I raised a brow along with the can of beer to my lips, sipping on the elixir of piss that he enjoyed exhaustively. I couldn't understand how this related to my question but I answered him anyways.

"My mother," I told him, with a strained smile.

He passed an acknowledging nod. There was a lingering silence as his eyes darted back and forth, with thoughts and emotions swelling and receding; the ebb and flow of the tidal waves in a continual motion of a spiral. "A month before leaving Japan, Koshiru's biological daughter fell down the stairs and broke her neck, instantly dying upon impact. We cremated her body, transferred the bones of her ashes into an urn, and buried her in the backyard."

Anger flared in the calm of his psyche and he crushed the already crumpled can in his strong grip.

"Kuina used to train ruthlessly. She slept three to four hours to stand on the same ground as me, to compete with my strength, but all that effort and everything she's worked for is now gone," he frowned.

I thought it was such a strange sight to see defeat written in his features, wavering and lost like a trembling flame.

"What's gone?" I asked, challengingly. He was clearly not in the mood for a vague question and probably would've preferred to quell his anger with a fight, but I didn't give a shit. "If you ask me, I think it a pretty rude thing to say that your friend lived a meaningless life."

"She wasn't my _friend_ ," he glared, daggers aimed pointedly in my direction. "Just, Koshiru's daughter."

It was a bit presumptuous and audacious of me to ask, but I could not ignore the sneaking suspicion that she meant more to him than he let on. "Did you... _uh_...love her?" I asked, hesitantly, worried that I was overstepping those silent boundaries that I had not dared crossing since the beginning of our friendship.

Of course he could've taken it in the familial or platonic direction but from the small knowing glimpse in his honest expression, I knew that he understood. There was a sinking feeling in my gut and a small chill scurrying down my spine despite the sweltering heat, counting down the slow, simmering seconds as I awaited for his furious response. Instead, all I heard was a small, resigned sigh. He grabbed another can of beer—which, if I counted correctly, was his sixth one, with no sign of inebriation, or slowing down.

He tugged the ring of his beer with his index finger and a small fizz rung in the air. He tipped the drink to his lips and downed the can as fast as gravity would allow it.

"I used to but nothing came out of it. I kept my feelings locked away and I planned to do so for the rest of my life, because, legally, we were siblings. I didn't want to disrespect Koshiru. He took me under his care when he didn't have to and I was treated as his son. It was only a small price to pay, to die with a secret."

I shook my head, disagreeing with him with a flare in my eyes, feeling so protective without exactly knowing why. "That's one way of looking at it but it's also living with a lie."

Zoro did not take this too fondly and he probably would've come at me with a fist if it weren't for the fact we were sitting side by side.

"Doesn't matter cus she's _dead_ ," Zoro argued, dismissively waving away my previous comment with a _literal_ wave of his hand.

I could've easily succumbed to the annoyance at the pit of my gut if it weren't for Zoro's desperate attempt of hiding his pain. Grinding a cigarette between my teeth and savoring the flavor before lighting up, I crushed every desire to kick the bastard's face for his ill-mannered attitude.

I took a placid route instead and gathered as much composure as possible.

I cleared my throat and apologized. "Sorry," I coughed out. "I was out of the line there. What I actually meant to say is that it's not fair for you to sacrifice yourself like that. You deserve what you want for others…"

A pensive silence hung in the air.

His lips drew back into a thin line and the furrow of his eyebrows did not loosen. For a few minutes all I could focus on was the desolate quietude of his neighborhood and how it hung so heavily in his sultry apartment.

"I know," he shrugged, standing up to open his two windows as the ashy smoke from my lungs filled up the room. "But it doesn't matter now."

The repeat of those words was like a slam of two doors closing shut in my face, as they have done many times in the past. I stood by, momentarily silent and still, before deciding that it was time to go home. The difference of approach, which was sympathetic and gentle the second time around, was not enough to soothe his aggravated sore wound.

With a swift decisive movement of a leap, I signaled that it was time for me to go home.

Zoro was an enigma, however simple minded of a buffoon he came off to be. I could never read him with the sort of precision I could with others. I was thoroughly convinced that he was fuming moments prior, but lagging behind me, as he would every other night and standing by the door, sheepishly scratching the back of his head, the empty sixth beer still in his grip, he struggled to choke out the words that were clearly difficult for him to say:

"Thanks… Sanji," he told me that night.

. . .

A few days later, I was back in his apartment, thinking about this while Zoro was shamelessly sprawled out across the floor in front of me, snoring and scratching the bare skin of his belly like an old man.

I held a photograph in my hand, pinched between my two fingers, of a young Zoro smiling next to a Japanese girl with cropped black hair. The girl appeared sixteen, taller than him by a few inches—and obviously, true to my nature, I noticed her hourglass figure in the loose clothing that hung off of her like a potato sack. She was beautiful, but that chronic frown resembled Zoro's.

 _The girl he loved_ , I reminded myself.

In all honesty, I couldn't imagine how devastating it would feel to lose someone you love, partly for the fact that I had never loved anyone before—not a single soul whom I've poured the entirety of myself into. There were a few crushes, fickle and spontaneous affairs that left me with a pang of emptiness more so than scorching passion.

I have yet to find that one person who makes me feel the way I do about cooking or martial arts. Someone who would not only appeal my libido but something deeper—my heart, my soul, and all else, for whatever that meant.

A snore, loud and prolonged enough to disguise itself as a thunderstorm, interrupted my thoughts and my eyes trailed over to the bastard, who, in all his sloppy glory had drool glued stuck to the side of his open mouth, trailing down slowly to the sharp outline of his jaws.

I bitterly grinded my teeth for the fact that he still managed to look, for the lack of a better word— _perfect_.

Over the course of the summer, he had hit another growth spurt and managed to gain an inch on me. Oddly enough, despite all the attention he was garnering from others, he wasn't romantically involved with anybody. And I couldn't imagine him with any particular individual. My gut told me that even the cropped haired girl named Kuina didn't seem to complement him well, as stunning as she was and had the same interest in swordsmanship.

 _He needs someone different_ , I thought. _That anal bastard needs someone to loosen him up. Someone to bring him out of his headspace and challenge him. Someone to break him out of his routine, habits, and ways of being._

The orbit of the moon pulling away from its pattern and the roaring waves settling into a flat line.

Zoro awoke with a startle, alert and dilated pupils that were reduced to small dots. Disarrayed, and muscles tightened with tension, squinting to make out who I was sitting in front of him cross legged. A dawning realization crossed over his features and then a deep frown, shaking his head from the blur of the dream still flashing in front of his eyes.

"Geez, you could look a little happier about seeing me," I teased.

"How long was I asleep for?" he averted with a gruff tone of voice. Clearly in a foul mood, with clearly not enough patience to entertain my jokes.

"An hour or so," I responded, checking my phone to see that it was five o'clock in the afternoon. "I have to go soon cus Zeff wants me for dinner." When I said that, I meant to _work_ for dinner and not to have some platitudous family dinner with the old man.

Zoro's tired eyes paid no heed to my words. Instead, they trailed in the direction of my hands where the forgotten photograph laid inches away from my fingertips. Leaning forward to pick up the old memory, he was close enough for me to breathe in a fresh scent of dirt and sweat from the nape of his neck. He silently observed the photo for a few seconds.

"I just had a dream about Kuina," he said, and I almost choked at the sudden mention of her name. "Can't remember much though."

I was surprised by the sudden openness, so I asked, "Well, what about the photograph?" with a casual shrug as if I wasn't curious at all.

"This photo was taken four years ago," he noted, twirling the photo playfully in his grasp. "At a Youth Kendo Tournament for the kids in our district. I barely met the age requirement to compete but I ended up coming in second place anyways. The referee ruled that her and I tied because I managed to hold out until time ran out, but it was clear from anybody's point of view that she deserved first place."

I imagined Zoro, who was able to slice open a rock like butter, as once a powerless child against a young girl.

"Did you compete after that?" I asked.

He nodded, "Yeah, when I turned sixteen I was allowed to compete on a national platform with master swordsmen. Kuina didn't bother signing up because women weren't able to compete on the same platform with men at that age and they had to separate into their own divisions." The dark hue of his lips suddenly tightened into a thin line and his eyes narrowed. "The guy who won first place, Dracule Mihawk, is a worldknown swordsman, distinguishable by his hawk-like eyes and ridiculously large sword. My match with him was very short and he didn't spare me in the least bit despite the large age gap. But I realized, the moment our swords crossed, how small my world had been and how far his world was from mine…"

Zoro paused for a moment as if realizing why he spoke about this in the first place, continuing, "He was so much stronger than me and Kuina, maybe even combined. I used to see Kuina's complaints of being a woman as some cheap excuse of a way out, just in case I beat her one day, but I understood when I saw how much further we had to climb up and how stagnant she had become since the day she hit puberty. I felt hopeless as a man who didn't have any physical limitations, so I couldn't even imagine what it felt like for her."

"Shit, that sucks," I said, the first thing off the top of my head.

He chuckled from the bluntness of my response. "It does, but she was still able to beat my ass until the day she died so I wouldn't pity her _that_ much."

I laughed alongside him, thoroughly enjoying the afterimage of his giant ego getting bruised by the little girl in the photograph.

"Oh, _fuck_! I gotta go," I cursed, glancing at the clock, before standing up abruptly, feeling guilty for leaving right after the end of his story. "Sorry for cutting your story short. I'll be back tomorrow," I promised, stumbling outside of his apartment in a clumsy rush.

As usual Zoro followed, except this time he followed me _outside_ with jingling keys in hand, struggling to slip into his sneakers. "Yo, wait up! I got plans at Baratie to meet Luffy!" he shouted after me, jogging to match my ruthlessly fast pace as I was literally flying down the street in sandals.

"Why the _fuck_ do you guys always have to meet at Baratie?" I shot a glance behind my shoulder to see his bulky figure, slowing down marginally for him to catch up. "Go to the fucking park or something!" I huffed irately, a bit out of breath for smoking too many cigarettes.

Matching my pace with ease and without a hitch of breath, he was by my side. "So I could hear that hobo playing your violin? No thanks," he joked, which was a stark contrast to the person he used to be half a year ago.

At the reminder of the homeless guy who stole my violin, I choked out a few soundless laughter.

"I always see that guy playing at the park. He makes a decent amount of money now."

"No shit? You got that man a job," he praised with a slight nudge to my side.

I shoved him in all lighthearted jest, and the sound of his laughter rang like a honey glazed tune, melodious and doused with an adolescent, boyish charm. I felt a rush of satisfaction coursing through me from the fruits of our friendship, recalling the past when I used to strenuously draw out a feeble smile from him. Now, before me was Zoro and his undisguised, boisterous laughter soothing the jittery nerves of my body, and his crescent shaped eyes and naked smile. The sun beaming behind him and the rush of the wind brushing past our ears, I heard the tune of his golden earrings jingling, the beat of our footsteps trudging down the streets, and the sound of our laughter carrying itself to the door of Baratie.

The way I felt with him was akin to the way I felt in the kitchen of Baratie, or the first time I ever met Luffy. Burrowing deep inside my heart, beating madly with adrenaline. Our mingled souls in an array of our summer days.

. . .

Inhale. Exhale. The sound of my breath, a small thin wisp of air between my lips. I sat cross legged in his living room, except a year had passed and he still didn't own a damn air conditioner. Sweat beads dribbled down my closed eyelids, and I tried with the furrow of my brows to bring my scattered thoughts into a single focal point but failed so tragically. I couldn't hear Zoro or feel his presence, as if he had erased himself out of the room and disappeared into thin air. I was left alone with my thoughts: unending, erratic, flooding thoughts forcefully sweeping my attention away.

Senior year was filled with group ventures with Luffy, Usopp, Nami, and Robin. Little private moments existed between Zoro and I the way it used to, reduced to small talks in between convenient fissures of time. I had been on the tip of my toes the entire year, with college preparations and culinary competitions, and the rest of my time was solely dedicated to my first girlfriend. A cute brunette I'd met at a coffee shop. I had yet to introduce her to the rest of the crew because she was a tad bit too shy and introverted, but I've done my part as her boyfriend to keep her occupied with my time.

Despite my efforts, I couldn't help but feel a little annoyed that she refused to even meet my friends. She stripped my time away from the group and stood between my friendships.

I convinced myself that I was in love with this girl. All that first love bullshit about the sound of her laughter and the way she clung to my arm while walking, but it was not nearly as satisfying as seeing Zoro's reaction to my stories. A sneer or a condescending scoff about the flurries of my emotions, or a Cheshire grin playing on his lips when I complained loudly about this girl.

I feigned disappointment when she told me about her trip to France but what I truly felt was relief. Anticipation itched the back of my throat, and I was dying to binge on my packs of cigs since she never liked the smell of smoke near her or on me.

The sweet taste of addiction burned my throat and down my chest as I inhaled. Realizing then and there why absence made the heart grow fonder.

Pondering on the thought of absence, I couldn't help myself from waltzing over to Zoro's place with a bento box and a bottle of whiskey: his two favorite things.

All hyped about catching up with him, to talk about mundane shit like how our year went and our future college plans, I banged on his door with the hollow of my knuckles. Couple seconds, and eventually minutes passed before I worried that he was at work. I wondered whether I should just leave what I had brought before I heard his voice from the other side of the door.

"Hold up," he told me, with a voice so low and husky it reminded me of the first day we met.

I felt excitement coursing through me.

Instead of a mirrored reaction, his expression revealed a frown like I had just taken a fat shit on one of his swords. He ushered me inside with a grumpy, "Come in," before treading to the farthest corner of his studio apartment.

I abandoned the bottle of whiskey on the countertop and shoved his bento box in the refrigerator before following him, sitting down with an _umf_ by his side. His eyes were closed like he was fast asleep and his body was still; a tree rooted to the earth. Heavy breathing, but controlled, disciplined, and evenly paced. I followed suit and closed my eyes to meditate, thinking at first: _How hard can it be?_ I breathed every single fucking second of my life, inhaling and exhaling, yet to concentrate on that process was nearly an impossible feat as my mind wandered off into every direction like a five year old child.

Dabbling in multitudous emotions, tension rised. I squeezed every part of my muscles instinctively.

"Don't try to force it." I heard the low hum of his voice peering into my mind. The next breath I took dug deep into my abdomen and unraveled some of the unbridled tension, similar to the effects of nicotine.

"Just let go," he told me ambiguously, but I understood.

It wasn't perfect but I stopped forcing my attention to a narrow place and allowed it to disperse, for it to just _be_. I steadied my breath like he had and soon found myself outside of my body and mind, simply floating like I was in a half-dazed dream.

Images of my past flickered in and out. Curly blonde hair and blue eyes. A reflection of myself but a woman.

Emotions overwhelmed me like churning water, caught in a storm that whirled out of sight within me. I took a gulp of breath to calm myself down, but instead of finding peace I ungracefully choked on my own saliva. Opening my eyes, the hard earned trance was broken for the two of us.

Zoro leaned close to me and slapped my back with the palm of his hand, so powerfully that it prompted me to choke again.

"You good?" he asked, as he _kept_ slapping my back mercilessly. If it had been my bare back, I'm sure the cops could've identified him by the fingerprints he would've surely left behind.

"Stop. Hitting. Me. Asshole," I choked out as I flung my arms at him, pushing but failing pathetically to move his upper body; instead, toppling backwards and landing on my back.

Pulling away from where he sat, I gave him a small kick to the side of his waist. A light tap at most.

The dunce stared at me with a look of confusion, as if wondering whether my kick had been an instigation or a defense mechanism. Either way, a decision was quickly made as an evil glint passed the murky colors of his eyes. He instantaneously pressed me down, pinned my arms together and used his knees to hold my thrashing weapons in place. I growled and snarled like a wild animal, and he just looked at me with that infuriating condescending grin of his. An affixed position of power clearly taunting me as I laid flat beneath him. Glued in place by his effortless grasp. Never have I felt so helpless, at someone else's complete mercy.

Every bit of my attention heightened. The sound of my own heartbeat thudding wildly and the irregular pace of my breath muddled with his.

"Get the fuck off of me, shithead," I fumed, blowing hot steam from my nostrils and swallowing a thick ball of saliva to help soothe my aching throat.

"No," he taunted, as simple as that. Gripping me tighter in his grip when I lashed out like a madman, twisting all of my joints and thrashing erratically in hopes of throwing him off.

"I wasn't picking a fight with you, asshole. This is so fucking unfair. You had the advantage because I was already _choking_ on the _ground_! You _shithead_!" I shouted, throwing another insult for good measure and watching the flickers of contemplation wavering on his face. A year ago my reasons would've been enough to convince him, but it seems that he had grown immune and accustomed toward my hissy fits.

He bared a broad grin like he was having the time of his fucking life, leaning close enough for me to inhale the scent of his shampoo and detergent off his cotton tee.

"Nice to see you too, Sanji," the bastard spoke in a low whisper, tinted with such affection that I had hoped to hear from him earlier.

I felt a bit squeamish in that moment, nervous even, from the pure masculine allure of his body pressed against my own and the sultry tone of his voice violating my ear. He was shirtless and I was able to make out every flex of his muscles, every glint of sweat, and every definition of his completely ripped back. I heard the sound of my erratic pulse and my breath melded into a simultaneous pace; in a completely harmonic race. I tried to steady myself, the way I had done just now during the meditation, but found myself lost in his eyes when he pulled himself away from my ear.

Naturally arched brows, small dimples embedded at the ends of his darkened lips, and eyes that seemed to see me for something beyond the archetype I put forth. I was at a complete loss for words.

"I win," he told me with a sly, winning smirk, loosening his grip on me and unlinking his limbs from mine. He held out a hand for me to grab, which of course I slapped away with a wound in my pride.

"Fuck you," I spat out, bitterly, with warm and reddened cheeks. "Keep it in your fucking pants."

Despite Zoro's appearances of being sexually idle, rumors spread like wildfire among the student body that he had lost his virginity to a transfer student named Tashigi. A girl he, with a disinterested shrug to the rest of the group, suggested looked identical to Kuina. Since then his sexual appetite grew greedily ravenous, branching off from Tashigi to other girls and even some guys, but knowing how misinformative rumors can be I stopped paying attention to them.

My comment stemmed from this change, as he began to be more openly flirtatious at school and at the bars we would often sneak into under Ace's supervision of the place. Naturally, women and men alike flocked over Zoro's way and, though he had been much indifferent toward them in the past, his demeanor has changed in the past year. His body language, expression, and the way he interacted with others shifted, became more laxed and warmer. I wondered what could've changed him so drastically and what was on his mind nowadays. We became so out of touch with another that he almost seemed like a stranger, and so our familiar habits of fighting and chatting felt different.

He raised a brow with interest, "Oh, you thought I was trying to get into your pants?"

The way he suggested it wasn't hinting at mockery but a mere dip in the water, treading lightly but very much in that direction in order to feel my stance on our relationship.

"No," I bit at the word coldly, giving nothing away to the bastard who, from the minute I saw his face, had not given me anything I wanted from him. "You got some balls thinking that you can just push me around like that."

He chuckled with slight mirth, thrusting himself off the ground with a quick jerk of his upper body. "It's been awhile," he remarked, neither extinguishing or fueling my heat, before quickly changing the subject. "You brought me whiskey?"

Despite the roused anger still burning through my body, I bit my tongue from making another snide remark and gave him a curt nod instead, glaringly. He picked up the bottle by the neck with the circle of his fingers and tipped it straight down, aperture to lip, swigging it like it was a bottle of water.

Feeling the vibrations in my back pocket, I took out my phone to see a photo of my girlfriend with her family. I sent a reassuring response to keep her updated that I was with Zoro.

"You _still_ talking to that chick? Got that dumb look on your face again," he quipped, swiping at his wet lips with the back of his hand. "Thought you were going to break up with her."

"Why would I break up with her? She's the cutest girl I've ever seen," I exaggerated with a slight roll of my eyes, feeling my annoyance toward her dissipating as they nicely redirected toward Zoro.

"You said that about Nami last year," he scoffed, fishing out the bento box from his refrigerator.

It was true that once our mutual red haired female friend hit puberty, all of my perceptions of her changed and evolved into an attraction. She was a literal goddess, in heart, mind, and body. I was very much infatuated with her, but didn't do much to further our relationship in respect to our boundaries as friends. Plus, she wasn't into me anyways. Her head had been up in space about someone she has yet to come clean about.

"And Robin," he added to the list, making his way back to where I sat. He opened up the bento box to reveal a neatly packed lunch. The smell of the aroma had both of us salivating. "Vivi, Kaya before she got with Usopp... should I continue?" He picked up a piece of sausage and brought it close to his lips, staring at me as he chewed with an open mouth.

"No," I winced, remembering how forward I was with Kaya until I realized her blatant feelings for Usopp. "This girl is...different."

"Oh, yeah? How so?" he asked, shoving his face with food and downing it with liquor, despite the fact that he was still well under the age limit. "She seems like every other girl to me."

"You haven't even met her!" I defended, crossing both my arms and legs.

With stuffed cheeks, Zoro spewed out, "And whose fault is that?"

"Okay, okay," I submitted defeat momentarily to defuse the situation and draw a truce. "She's just not ready to meet you guys, but I'll try to convince her to meet everyone after the trip."

" _If_ we get to meet her," he corrected with an enigmatic, foreboding glint in his eyes. "Anyways, I wanted to ask you something." Ignoring the comment about my girlfriend, I shot Zoro a look of curiosity with a raised brow. "You're going to New York for culinary school, right? I heard from Usopp and Luffy."

Groaning, I smacked my forehead with the palm of my hand, "Jesus, those idiots can't keep a secret." Looking up at him, I caught a spark of light in the brown tinted glass bottle. "I still haven't decided whether I should go to New York or attend a school nearby. Cooking seems like the obvious choice but it feels like there's nothing else for me to learn."

"You're cocky," he grinned, calling me out. I grinned in response, abuzz with a simultaneous feeling of guilt and pride. A trait acquired from Zoro, to overturn my usual humble nature toward the art of cooking into a realization that I was a damn good cook. "But why keep it a secret? Doesn't seem like a big deal"

"I don't know what to do about Zeff and my girlfriend. Doubt I could keep this relationship alive long distance, and, you know, the old man always needs me around."

Zoro let loose a drawled out and deeply ringing burp, indicating that he had finished the entire bento box and half the whiskey bottle.

"Move to New York," he said, picking at his teeth with his thumbnail.

My immediate reaction was to argue with him. "But it's expensive and I don't know if I want to put that sort of burden on Zeff, and what about my girlfriend? It's going to be so hard to date long distance..."

Interrupting me with an impatient shake of his head, he added, "Luffy and I got a job over there as teachers for martial arts. Come live with us."

I was struck momentarily with glee, mouth agape and wide eyed, until it dispersed as quickly as it arrived. The old man's stern expression remained seated in my psyche and I couldn't get rid of the guilt that always came with the possibility of burdening the old man. I heard the slight jingle of Zoro's golden earrings as he cracked his neck side to side, and I glimpsed at the small black cat peeking out of his crewneck tee. His only pet in Japan named samurai, engraved and inked onto his tanned skin.

He bore his eyes into mine, slightly drunk from downing the whiskey on an initially empty stomach. "What do you really want to do? Don't give me this shit about your fears and doubts. Be honest with yourself," he scorned, as blatant as when I first met him but with care as we've gotten closer over time.

 _Fuck_ , I thought. _He's got me_. I knew exactly where my heart was on the matter, but I've been too hesitant on my decision by worrying about everybody else.

"I want to go," I finally admitted, feeling the weight of my own truth crushing me but simultaneously elevating me. Excitement took shape as the reality of living with my best friends dawned upon me. And in what seemed like an instant Zoro drew closer to where I sat and placed his large hand on the top of my head, patting me rewardingly.

He has never done anything like this before and I was paralyzed, utterly captivated by the motion of his arms and kind eyes.

"Don't worry about the old man. He'll be fine without you and he already knows about your acceptance to New York," he unveiled with a grin. "He told us that you're an idiot for worrying about useless shit like that, and that you should get your head out of your ass and do whatever you want. Exact words, I swear."

I took a sharp intake of breath and choked at the thought of the shitty old man saving every little penny for me without ever indulging on himself.

"Shitty old man," I cursed under my breath, feeling my emotions swallowing me whole. Despite his rugged nature and foul mouth, he was my only family member. The only person in the world who loved me wholeheartedly.

Feeling another gentle, reassuring pat on my head, I felt a swell of happiness sweeping away my previous annoyance. I looked up with a curious glance, churning with excitement, "Are you going to work full time? Who got you guys jobs? When are we moving? Do we have an apartment?"

"One at a time, idiot," he chuckled, pulling his hand back. "Luffy knows the director of the place, some guy named Shanks. Apparently he's a big shot in the martial arts world and he's agreed to help us get a two bedroom apartment in the city."

Raising an eyebrow, I asked, "Two bedrooms? But there's three of us..."

Zoro nodded with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "So? We're sharing a room, moron. It's either me or some frat boy from college. Pick your poison."

"You're basically a frat boy," I scoffed, thinking to myself how he checked off all the boxes: muscleheaded, alcoholic, and sexually frivolous. "How come Luffy gets a room to himself, then?"

He gave me a look that seemed to spell out 'really?' and it dawned on me that neither one of us would be able to handle living in close quarters with that hyperactive ball of light without wanting to kill ourselves.

"You forgot one problem," he brought up, waving a finger in my face. "I thought you _loved_ your girlfriend."

It was a pretty dick move, but with the prospect of my future in another place—a bustling city like New York at that—I quickly found myself acknowledging that I should break up with her. It was shitty, but I couldn't deny myself the sort of freedom in a new place. "I—'' I began, stumbling on my words from the pure hypocrisy that was about to spill from my mouth. "I mean, long distance relationships have a low possibility of working out, so I should cut it off before it gets too serious…"

A sly, taunting smile curled at the corners of his lips. "Save your face for someone else, dickhead. I already know how much of an asshole you are underneath," he drawled out, haughty and condescending. "Cus you're just like me."

It was true that I usually had a gentlemanly façade at school, treading the lines of a possible romantic interest and friendship with girls. I pursued them passionately, with a blatant confession and an obvious show of interest—which, of course, was usually followed by a flat rejection that spelled out how I lacked the sort of charisma that Zoro seemed to emanate so effortlessly.

Knowing this, with my ego hinged on the line, I scoffed, "I'm nothing like you, asshole, you make girls cry every fucking week."

"And guys," he added, so unexpectedly that I found myself speechless and quickly breaking out into cold sweat. Taking in my blatant shock and reading my expression carefully, he confirmed my suspicions: "I swing both ways by the way, don't really see all this fuss over sexes. Love is love, and sex is sex, right?"

To be honest, I had a difficult time swallowing the pill that Zoro threw so suddenly but I knew how significant my next words would be for him. So, I sucked up all of my pure, unadulterated shock and gave him a small reassuring nod. "Shit, you're right. Love is love," I echoed; and quick to change the topic, I asked him, "But have you fallen in love? After Kuina?"

He stared at me, dully, as if to recognize my sifting discomfort that had yet to settle, breaking the moment of eye contact to pass a small nod.

I gave a small gasp like a housewife who came across the biggest piece of rumor in her life. "Who? Is it Tashigi?" It has to be, I told myself. The girl who looks exactly like Kuina. Who else could it be?

With a small shrug, he disinterestedly turned away from the conversation and drew a clear line between us. Making it clear that I had stepped into a forbidden topic.

Feeling a wave of that familiar disappointment washing over me, I gave a small pout but respected his boundaries, switching over to another topic that disclosed more details about our future living situation. And instead of that disappointment was a build of excitement, simultaneous to a small grip of hesitance at the thought of the old man. The pillar whom I've always leaned against and vice versa despite his stubborn refusal of admittance. I was finally leaving the nest that I've always held onto so firmly with every excuse possible, and a sort of lightness lodged itself inside my heart.

Yet, despite all the chaos ensuing inside of me and the external gratitude, it bothered me to know that there was someone else in Zoro's mind.

I didn't know what bothered me more: not knowing who it was or the fact that his attention was caught elsewhere.


End file.
